Good Teaching
by msllamalover
Summary: A series of fourteen drabbles, based on the next generation of Weasleys and the first, learning from each other, because true education goes beyond years. Includes all the Weasley kids, and Teddy. Light and fluffy.


_Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!  
__A/N: A series of fourteen drabbles, based on the next generation of Weasleys and the first, teaching and being taught, because true education goes beyond years. I hope you like them, reviews are great!_

_Shocked_

Lucy steps off the train, squirming grey kitten in her arms. She looks around nervously, spotting her mother and father waiting for her. Molly isn't there, but she'll see her later. A mask of sheer confidence spreads across her face, though she isn't sure she completely feels it.

Her father spots her first, mouth falling open. She shimmies her way over to them, now fighting the urge to bite her lip in anticipation.

'Lucy love, what in the name of Merlin happened to your hair!?' Her mother asks when she first sees it. She doesn't seem to be too upset.

She giggles slightly, running her hand through the back of her recently cropped, auburn hair. 'I cut it, Mum. Do you like it?'

'It looks wonderful, actually. But why?! Your lovely long hair!'

She smiles and kisses her cheek and hands her the kitten. 'I fancied a change. He's new too, by the way, my kitty. Holly gave her to me.'

'I can't get over your hair. You look so much older. My baby! What on earth will the family say? You must be the first to have it so short, your Gran will go spare. She won't be able to get over how old you look! And you're the baby of the whole family, too.'

'Mum, you're rambling.'

'So I am, well, that doesn't really make a change does it? It looks lovely. Oh, I've missed you so very much, love.'

Lucy hugs her mum, careful not to squash her kitten.

Her father's mouth is still open in his shock.

_Succeeded_

'No one thinks I can do it, Dad.' Fred whispers to his dad.

'Do what, me boy? You can do anything you put your heart to!'

George flicks some of cream at him. He is working on some complex filling for a biscuit designed to transfigure one's head into a cloud. For now, all they've managed is the ears, but his dad is, as usual, sparklingly optimistic.

'My OWL results come tomorrow. Everyone knows Molly will get amazing results, and Dom. No one thinks I can succeed at anything except making jokes. I love doing that, dad I do, and I love _this_. But I want to be clever too, why does nobody believe in me?'

George looks at him, seeing the boy (young man now, he thinks, wondering when the bloody hell that happened) who reminds him so much of Angelina, so much of himself, and so much of Fred. He's brilliant, the most brilliant mind for such a long time, and he's certain that he'd think so even if he wasn't his father.

'_I_ believe in you, Fred. This is the most fun I have in this old shop, when you or Roxy come to do this with me, but you can really do _whatever _you put your mind to. Your mother and I will support you whatever you chose. And tomorrow, when the results come through, you'll prove them all wrong.'

The next morning, Fred is hugged by what seems like every Weasley alive. He achieves a rather remarkable (or so his Uncle Percy says, though his mum silences him immediately, saying that he shouldn't have doubted in the first place) nine O.W.L.s, six Es and three Os. The same grades as Dominique, though in different subjects. Molly gets two Es and seven Os but none of them are surprised by her fantastic grades. The family are proud of all of them, but Fred's results seem to be most surprising to them.

Fred breaks away to hug his father. They embrace for a long time, as George whispers, 'Succeeding's always more fun when no one expected you to, isn't it?'

All Fred can do is nod, and laugh loudly with his dad.

_Battled_

'Rose Weasley! You have to take a bath!'

'Well what if I don't want to!? I'm _eight_ years old, Daddy, _eight! _I can decide when I take a bath and I don't WANT to have one!'

'FINE!' Ron takes a deep breath, not wanting to get into a shouting battle with his daughter who, like her mother, could beat him easily. 'Fine. If you don't have a bath, I'll get Mummy, and we'll see what she thinks, shall we?'

'Daddy, no! You wouldn't! She'll … _shout_!'

'Well, I suppose there _is_ one thing you could do to stop me from getting her…' He smirks, holding up a fluffy, maroon bath towel.

'Whatever.' She grabs the towel and stomps into the bathroom. 'But I hope you know, Daddy, that that tactic was _so_ unfair.'

'Welcome to life as a Weasley love. Now, bath!'

_Escaped_

'So, Lucy, care to tell me why you're up here all on your own?' Ginny clambered clumsily into the tree house. She wasn't as young as she felt, she hated reminding herself. The others often laughed when they said how much Lucy reminded them all of Ginny at that age. Ginny didn't laugh, and neither (most of the time) did Percy. Percy seemed proud that his daughter was like his sister, and Ginny was embarrassed by that. But she never laughed.

'Not really, Auntie Ginny.' Lucy hugged her knees to her chest and burying her face in them. Before Ginny could say anything, Lucy's head was up again, eyes red. 'Auntie Gin, why doesn't anyone take me seriously? Just because I'm the youngest!'

Ginny smiled and pulled the girl into her arms. She was an awfully slender child (it was at that point that Ginny _knew_ what she'd been trying to put off recognizing for years: she was turning into her mother) but tall and stubborn. She wouldn't have wanted the others to see her cry.

'Want to know what I learned from being the youngest, Luce?' Ginny leaned her head closer to her niece, whose wide brown eyes were shining, from recent tears and excitement, and whispered, 'They all love you, but when you're the youngest, you just have to fight a little bit harder.'

Lucy nodded, not yet fully understanding what she meant. It would be a few more years (and a hair cut, she later speculated) before she fully appreciated her Aunt's advice.

'You can't escape to this tree house forever,' Ginny smiled, her eyes sparkling. 'Besides, Lysander just got here and I'm sure he'll be very disappointed not to see you.'

'He's here!?' Lucy grinned, jumped up and climbing quickly down the steps. 'Not that it matters to me, anyway! He's just a _boy_.'

Ginny laughed, before climbing down herself.

_Dreamed_

'Can you tell me a story, Charlie?' Teddy asks. He is the only Uncle he doesn't refer to as his Uncle. He's always just been Charlie, and they're both happy with that.

Charlie looks round. Teddy is fourteen, probably too old for stories, but if he wants to hear one, Charlie'll always tell him. He's always, secretly, a little worried that he'll wake up one day and realise that Charlie is just a man who loved his mother once (who still does, just a tiny amount, though he's never told anyone) and not related to him at all. He's always loved him like a son, or a nephew, and, more recently, a friend too.

'Of course, Ted. What do you want to hear?'

He watches as his face crumples in concentration as he tries to decide. It is exactly, _exactly_, what his mother used to do when she was concentrating too, and Charlie can't help but smile.

'Something about dragons, or my mum, or my dad. Can you tell me a story about home, Charlie?'

'You don't need _me_ to tell you about home, the man who spent his life dreaming about escaping to the Dragons. Home is where the heart is.'

Teddy laughs and laughs at that, and so does Charlie. 'That was such naff thing to say.' Teddy splutters as they calm down.

'Shut it you. Why don't _you_ tell _me_ a story for once?'

'I don't know any.' He sighs sadly.

'Tell me about your dreams then.' And he does, and Charlie listens completely, not laughing or smirking when Teddy expects him to, at the things which sound unreachable or equally as naff as his previous comment. He just nods and looks encouragingly on. Teddy asks him why he doesn't doubt him, or advise him, and Charlie replies honestly.

'If those are your dreams, then I'm behind you all the way. You see, I knew a woman once, crazy thing she was, and people told her that her dreams were out of her reach, but she didn't stop trying.'

'My mum?' Teddy looks happily at him, and suddenly looks younger than before.

'The very same. If you believe, so do I.'

_Laughed_

'James Potter, make yourself useful and come and help me in here.'

James grinned and sauntered into the kitchen. He bowed deeply, and kissed her on the cheek. 'My darling Grandmama! How charming it is to see you!'

Molly sighed, looking at him with a mixture of love and wonderment. He reminded her so much of Fred, and of the way George used to be. George was _almost_ like he used to be, but there was the part of him, as with all of them, which had never been quite restored. She just shook her head and told him to sit down. 'You can make yourself useful and peel some potatoes. Now dear, tell me, how is Alice?'

James blushed royal, Weasley red. 'She's spectacular, to tell you the truth, always has been.' He coughed slightly and tried to change the subject. 'You know, your cooking is still _spectacular_ too. Can we not discuss that instead?'

'Yes well.' She ignored his question, though she didn't doubt his great love for her cooking. 'You have far too much of your Uncles in you. What in the name of Merlin does Alice do you with you?'

'I'm rather afraid to go into that, Grandmama. You might never look me in the eye again.'

He looked up at her, stopping peeling for a second. His face was bright and cheeky, with a look that was all his own in his eyes (the same eyes as her Ginny, she told herself yet again). Despite herself, Molly chuckled.

_Confused_

_Hi Mum._

_I don't know what to do. Tomas Finnegan broke up with me. But I didn't _do _anything! And he won't tell me why. He won't talk to me. He's being such a bastard! _

_All guys can't be like this. Can they? Oh mum, please tell me they aren't! It's not that I want everything to be simple (I mean, that'd be dull wouldn't it?) but I want to bloody understand! That can't be too much, really. _

_What should I do, Mum? Everyone thinks I'm fine, because I can't let them know that I'm not. That'd be admitting defeat, which is really more of a Molly thing to do. Only don't tell her that. Tomas Finnegan sucks, mum. But I'd still forgive him and go out with him again. I suck just as much as he does._

_Help me!!!_

_I love you, Roxy_

Angelina smiles and writes back to her immediately. She tells her not to worry or be confused. When she looks back on her own life, she looks back now with not the confusion that her daughter feels, but with certainty.

So she writes back what she is certain of. _Don't give up yet, my darling, and don't worry or be confused. Whatever will be, will be._

_Imagined_

'Mama, can I try this one on? I know it's expensive, but I do only have one occasion to need one. I'll only leave Hogwarts once, won't I?' Dominique, arguably the most beautiful of the Weasleys, the most Veela, pulls her best puppy dog eyes at her mother.

It isn't that she's an arrogant girl, just confident, like her mother, though that is often misconstrued.

Fleur just grins and suppresses a sigh. 'I am not your father, you don't need to pull that face at me. You know it gets you no where.' Dominique pouts, reminding Fleur (and seemingly everyone else who knew her) of herself at that age. 'Fine! But don't think this'll become a regular thing!'

'I don't know how good it looks.' Dom calls out from behind the shimmering curtains of Milkin's changing rooms. She draws back the curtain, looking positively glowing. 'Actually, I think it does look rather good.'

'Well imagine that.' Fleur looks at her with raised eyebrows, and it is a matter of seconds before they both disintegrate into fits of giggles.

_Guarded_

Louis, a stout, copper haired three year old, waddles towards him, across the garden. He chuckles and moves out of his shed to meet him half way. He doesn't pick him up, because, at his age, he can't do it. He holds his hand instead, and they make their slow way to his shed.

The walls are lined with light bulbs (though of course they aren't bright) and the various rubber ducks and nuts and bolts he has collected over the years.

'Wha's dis?' Lou asks in his baby-voice, and Arthur is so, so overjoyed that finally, after all these years, someone wants to know about what _he_ loves.

He lifts, very carefully, the smallest rubber duck off the shelf and hands it to his grandson. 'Be careful now! It's a rubber duck.'

Louis looks briefly at him in wonderment, but his gaze is glued to the yellow, plastic object in his hand. Arthur blissfully tells him all about it, and they are there until Molly calls them in for dinner. The next time Bill, Fleur and the children come, Louis is clutching something excitedly in his fat hands.

'Is a duckie!' He beams, showing him the green glass duck. Arthur's never seen one like it, and he thinks how fantastic muggles are. Again they are looking eagerly at a duck, and Arthur feels like his birthday has come early.

This grandson is like him and he is _his_, like none of the others, and (like _all_ of the others) he'll guard him forever.

_Listened_

Victoire always was the most stubborn of children. She wouldn't listen to her Mum, who told her not to let good things pass by because she didn't want to admit she had been wrong.

She wouldn't listen to her cousins, who told her not to be so bloody ridiculous and to go and snog him, anyway.

She wouldn't listen to her Aunt Hermione, who sent her Pride and Prejudice as some sort of not-so-secret hint.

She wouldn't listen to Uncle Ron or Uncle George, when they suggested, much to the annoyance of Ginny, that she send a poetic Valentine.

She wouldn't listen to her Grandma, who told her that she should knit him something, or bake him something.

So Harry is pleased (and just a little bit smug) when she listens to _him_. He tells her, simply, that Teddy is miserable and so is she. He tells her that the arguments mean nothing compared to what they feel. He tells her not to be silly when she laughs at him for being sappy, because it worked for him, didn't it?

And so, just like Hermione all those years ago, she listens when he tells her to swallow her pride.

_Promised_

'Hugo, please tell me why it seemed like a good idea to break into the Slytherin common room and dye everything green - _including_ students and Professor Zabini -'

'Oh, Professor, no!'

'No?'

'No, Professor Longbottom, not _including_ the students and Professor Zabini. _Especially_ the students and Professor Zabini!'

Neville resists the urge to chuckle. Instead he tries (and fails, Hugo notices) to frown. 'Would you mind telling me how you masterminded this rather fantastic, though don't tell anyone else I said that, prank? Even your Uncles, Fred and George, didn't manage anything on such a level.'

'Well, I'm afraid I can't do that,' Hugo smirks. 'I'm working on dying the Hufflepuffs yellow as we speak.'

'Oh no. You can't repeat a prank, did George not teach you anything?'

Hugo raises his eyebrow, he knows by now when Professor Longbottom is trying to use reverse psychology on him. 'He did indeed tell me, but when something is _that_ funny, the way I see it, rules are meant to be broken.'

'Fine, just so long as you know that the mixture of your mother's brains and the Weasley practical joking, you're lethal.'

'Why thank you!'

Neville shakes his head. 'You have to promise me this time though, that you won't dye any more students.' Seeing Hugo's face, he feels the need to add, 'I don't think Professor McGonagall would take too kindly to it either. Promise?'

'I promise.' Hugo smirks again, and Neville knows he's lying.

_Pretended_

Lily looks at her Uncle, with the scars on his face and the sparkle in his eye, and he can't decide whether she should be afraid or amused. He sees her looking, and scoops her into his arms, whisking her away like he is dancing with her.

'Little Lily, how are we on this fine afternoon?'

'What happened to your face?' Lily asks, abruptly, reminding him of Ginny. He's had to have this conversation, or a similar one, with all of the children at one point or another. He hasn't had it with Hugo, because Hugo had told him that he looked cool and that it must have been _really scary_. He hadn't really needed the conversation, which Bill was surprised about, but thankful for. Lucy isn't old enough for it yet.

And, as usual, Bill tells her with complete honesty and frankness what happened.

Lily is a perceptive child, and she can see more than the others that it's still a hard story for him to hear. And so she, more than the others, pretends that it doesn't matter. She'll pretend it forever, because it's nearly true. So nearly. And pretending is so easy to do, with an imagination like hers.

It takes years for her not to have to pretend anymore, but somehow, the years of pretending just make it even more wonderful when she can finally say, with complete honesty, 'I think you're handsome, Uncle Bill.'

_Sparked_

Hermione opens the pages of the book Albus had just returned to her. A rather fantastic copy of Treasure Island, one of both of their favourites. Albus was a grown man now, twenty three years old, but they had been lending each other books since he was old enough to enjoy literature. It was something of a tradition between Aunt and nephew. She had sent him the first book for Christmas.

She leaved through the pages, revelling in the delicious scent rising from them. A scrap of parchment fell free, and she picked it up, confused. On it was a short, perfectly formed story, of a cat. It was charming.

'Aunt Hermione?' Albus' voice came from the fireplace behind her. He looked rather embarrassed. 'Did I by any chance leave a scrap of parchment between the pages of Treasure Island?'

'Yes, you did. Why are you blushing? It's very good.'

'Really? Do you think so?' He looked brighter immediately, for she was, after all, a fan of literature rivalled only by himself. 'I've been writing little stories for years. You sparked something in me, I think, after you sent me Dracula, that first time.'

Hermione was overjoyed. 'How exciting! Can I see some of them? Do you want to write stories? I didn't think your skills should be confined to the Prophet!'

Albus might have been the first person she inspired by her love of reading, and his green eyes, always sincere, tell her how thankful he is.

_Learned_

Molly snapped her head around, shouting at her sister to leave her alone. 'Molly Weasley, what on earth did you do?'

'Nothing!'

'Your sister is ten years old, she's just excited about going in September. Could you not have spared five minutes from your revision?'

'Dad! I have to revise! My exams are in _six _months. Six! Lucy has nine months before she goes. I'll give her my whole summer, after I've finished my exams.'

Her dad mutters and shakes his head sadly. 'There are more important things, Molly. School is just one tiny part, and exams are an even smaller part of that. They're important, but Merlin, Mol, they're _nothing._ You have a sister who wants to spend time with you and you have wisdom you can impart. Is that not the best thing you have? Think about it, please.'

Her dad leaves, and thirty minutes later, he hears giggles and sighs and exclamations of delight coming from his daughter's bedroom. He can't help but think that's the best thing he's taught his Molly so far.


End file.
